


dancing through the fire just to catch a flame

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, With A Twist, blind date au, set when Mickey signs for United
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 22:04:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14246700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: Shortly after Mickey signs for United, he finds out that his new captain is interested in men, and accidentally sets him up with his archenemy...Who is also Mickey's ex.Shenanigans, predictably, ensue.





	dancing through the fire just to catch a flame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flamingosarepink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamingosarepink/gifts).



> Shoutout to @donnerhall-darling, who was absolutely instrumental in reading and encouraging this story to bloom in the way it did--it had sat on my computer for months and months beforehand! She also came up with the title, and I love it!

“Jamie, please, please forgive me, mate—“

“I’ll see you at Old Trafford, Mickey Mouse. I’m—I’m not mad. I’m not.”

“Quit lying, I know you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset. I know you were young when you left Liverpool for Madrid, I know that agent of yours was giving you bad advice, and you were jealous of Stevie. And I tried to get the boss to bring you back, mate, every single year. Because you asked me to. But I get it, sometimes deals fall through, I’ve been playing long enough to understand that, Mickey. I’m just sorry you’re going to join the Mancs. I promise, Mickey Mouse, I’m not angry at you.”

“Promise?”

“Okay, I am a little bit upset, but not at you, okay? At the circumstances. You were so close to coming back, if it was all about the money, then I’m a little disappointed, that’s all.”

“I’ll make it up to you, J, I swear I will. Just give me a chance.”

“I’ll… see you at Old Trafford, okay? You can tell me what it’s like to be loved by Devils.”

“James. Please.”

“Sorry, Mick, I have to go, someone’s at the door. I’ll call you later, though, okay?”

He doesn’t call back, but Michael doesn’t really expect him to, if he’s honest. Some wounds take time to heal. And Jamie had always been kind to him, taken care of him as much as Michael had let him. He’d never liked to admit he was hurting, and Michael knew he was, over this transfer. They both knew Michael would be able to tell if they talked. He could always tell. That was what happened when you’d known someone from the age of twelve. So Jamie just made sure they didn’t talk, and Mickey didn’t force it.

It’s almost a month later when Jamie finally picks up the phone and calls him, and Michael is so glad to hear from him that he stays in his car talking instead of going to training, unwilling to hang up.

“Had a shite date last night, Mick.” Jamie say in lieu of hello, a sure sign that he’s trying to be casual but he’s nervous about the conversation. Mickey smiles anyway.

“Yeah? Man or woman?”

“Woman this time. Mum set me up. Dunno if I really like women, Mick. Need a lad. I always find it easier to connect when I go out with a lad. Like when we used to go out.”

“You liked Mel, from school, remember? You liked her for a good ten years, J. I don’t think the reason we worked was because I was a lad, I think it was just because I was—me. Your best mate.”

“Yeah,” Jamie sighs, “but it was good, while it lasted.”

“I could come over,” Mickey’s cautious about making the offer—Jamie tends to get invested, and they already love each other too much to risk it again.

“No, you couldn’t,” Jamie is kind about the denial, though, says it gently, “but you could listen to me whine about this woman, though.”

Michael grins. “Go on, was she better or worse than the crazy Blue who thought she could get you to move to Everton?”

Jamie rants about her for ten minutes, and Mickey ends up five minutes late for training, dashes into the training center, pulling his shirt off before he’s even in the dressing room—there’s a lady custodian doing some vacuuming across the way who looks rather pleased with her luck—and sprints out to the warmup, nodding agreeably when Fergie screams at him for being late and informs him that the fine will be £10,000. It’s completely worth it.

After training, Michael listens to the Mancs gossip about things as they shower and change back. He can’t quite break the habit of calling them the Mancs, though he’s meant to be one of them now. He’s slowly starting to realize that life on this side of the Northwest Derby isn’t as different from life on the other side as he’d expected. It was just… more successful, as bitter as the thought tasted. It had been uncomfortable, the first week of training with them—a Scouser in the United dressing room. He’d felt like a spy, like he ought to be taking coded notes and sending them via telegram to Jamie and Stevie.

But he’d gotten used to it, eventually, and Wayne had been ecstatic to have another Scouser round the place. Acceptance from the star striker had led to acceptance from the rest of the team, starting with the England internationals, especially lads like Rio, who weren’t Mancs born and bred.

Eventually even the Class of ‘92 lads began trusting him, reluctantly.

And that was how they’d gotten to this place. It was the same day he’d had that call off Jamie, earning himself that £10,000 fine. They were stripping off after training and getting into the shower, and the lads were having a little chitchat in the normal way.

Gary was moaning about a date, which was normal enough—he seemed to be perhaps the most perpetually single man Mickey had ever met.

But today was different. Illuminating, one might even say.

“My nan doesn’t get it, Scholesy! I’ve told her a dozen times that I’m not interested in women, and she just doesn’t get it! Says I spent way too much time playing football when I was younger and that it turned me gay!”

“You told me you had a crush on our first coach, mate,” Scholesy says kindly.

“Well, yeah, because I _am_ into guys, but football didn’t _turn_ me gay! Had a crush on my best mate in primary even before I signed for United. Men are—they’re just easier to talk to, and they don’t twist things. And they’re so, so attractive! And _strong_ , honestly I don’t see what you lot see in women—“

“It’s the tits—“

“They’re really soft—“

“They smell good—“

“I’ve been with lads,” Mickey volunteers quietly.

“Oh, I—I didn’t know that. That’s… good to know, actually.”

“So you’re gonna date Mickey now?”

“Oh, God no! No offense, Mick, you’re just not my type.”

“And I don’t date teammates.” Michael says softly, “it can get messy. People get hurt.”

“Exactly!”

Gary diverts the conversation to something else, but Michael finds him afterwards, walking back to his car.

“I can set you up with someone, if you want. Someone discreet. He won’t say anything.”

“Friend of yours? I—I don’t really do blind dates, Michael.”

“No, you do, but apparently only if your nan picks them.” Mickey’s grinning, and it’s a good sign that Gary laughs and doesn’t deck him for talking shite about his nan. “At least this one’s a lad. Worst that can happen is you two don’t hit it off, right? Maybe you’ll get laid. Or who knows, maybe you’ll actually like the guy.”

“Yeah, guess you can’t actually be worse at getting me a date than Nan. At least he’ll have a dick.”

 _Quite a good dick, actually,_ Mickey thinks to himself.

“I’ll arrange everything, okay? I’ll book the restaurant, I’ll tell him where to go, this weekend. He’s working Saturday—“ Liverpool have a match, Mickey has it recorded and he’s going to be watching from the safety of his own living room once he gets home from their own match, “—but Sunday, if that’s okay. I’ll foot the bill and everything.”

Gary agrees, still skeptical, and Michael doesn’t realize the scale of his fuck up until he’s sat in the car again, hearing the ghost of Jamie’s laughter.

Ah, well, at least Jamie’ll think it funny. He’d always been a prankster. This just means that Michael will have to look out for rubber snakes round his garden, and little plastic mice in his house. Little pipe-cleaner tarantulas on string. Or maybe something less innocuous, like a bedroom full of strippers cavorting with each other. Jamie had always been rather talented that way.

Still, it’s done now, and Mickey is getting more and more excited to see the fallout. Best case scenario, they both survive—correction, all three of them survive. Worst case scenario… the restaurant goes up in flames?

It probably speaks to Mickey’s longstanding friendship with Jamie Carragher that he could see exactly how this would go down—Gary would say something, Jamie would throw his drink over him—it’d be strong, because he’d need something strong, and the candle would ignite the table, one of them would knock the table over trying to get away… and ta-da, suddenly the whole restaurant would be up in smoke and Michael would be singlehandedly responsible.

“Hey, J? You know that awful date you were telling me about with that woman? I’ve got a better one for you—yeah, he has a dick, you’ll love him, you two have so much in common. I’m gonna book a table at a nice restaurant for the pair of you, okay?”

“Mickey, if you wanted to hook up for old times’ sake, you could just come over to mine with a bottle of vodka and we could call it a night.”  
  
“Humor me, okay?”

Jamie laughs, loud and bright, just like Mickey remembers him, and agrees.

  
Gary arrives at the restaurant first. He’s not quite wearing a suit, because a suit doesn’t really say ‘ _wanna go fuck in the closest hotel and then never talk again?_ ’ so much as it does ‘ _I’m going to propose to you now.’_ So he’s wearing a nice white shirt, no tie, and he’s left the first button—first two buttons, actually, undone, so the guy will see part of his chest. And khakis that fit close to his legs—the last date he’d actually hit it off with had said they made his butt look good, and that definitely wouldn’t hurt.

He sits down at the table, waiting a few minutes and trying not to look at his phone.

 _Jamie fucking Carragher_ walks into the restaurant a few minutes later—what are the chances?! But Gary’s determined not to let him ruin this date. He’s going to stay focused and woo the crap out of whoever sits opposite him at this table, so help him God—

Carra sees him and laughs loudly, throwing his head back. _Fucking Mickey_ , he thinks delightedly, _what a twat. So this is what I get for ignoring him for a month._

He strides over to the table and sits down in the chair, ignoring Gary’s outraged expression.

“ _I have a date,_ Carragher, and he’s going to be here any minute, so if you could kindly just _fuck off_ —“

“How bizarre, Gary, because I have a date too, actually. An old friend of mine set us up, though you probably see more of him now than I do.”

Gary’s stomach sinks. “I’m going to make his life hell,” he mutters, grabbing his coat off the back of his chair and standing up.

“Why don’t we start now?” Jamie proposes innocently, grabbing a piece of bread from the bread basket and chewing on it. “He’s footing the bill for this date, isn’t he? And this is a pretty nice restaurant. Bet we could do some real damage here. We don’t even have to talk. Just order a couple bottles of the most expensive wine they have, loads of appetizers, lobster, oysters, steak, you name it, I bet they’ve got it, Neville.”

The waitress comes up to them hesitantly. “Can I start you off with something to drink?” Gary looks down at the Scouser on the other side of the table, and takes his coat off. Jamie smirks a little, watching as Gary sits down again.

“Yeah, I was wondering if we could have a look at your wine list?” Gary asks politely. Jamie’s grinning wickedly, and something flips in his stomach—he’s never had that conspiratorial smile aimed at him before, and it’s surprisingly nice, being on the same team.

She walks away.

“Hands off the bread,” Gary hisses as soon as she’s gone, “bread is _free_ , you idiot! We are aiming to inflict maximum damage here, we can’t afford to be wasting stomach space on something that doesn’t cost any money! And I hope you’re a heavy drinker, because you can stay at mine if you have to, but we have to get through a shit ton of wine tonight.”

Jamie smirks at him again. “You trying to get me drunk so I’ll sleep with you?”

Gary rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, mouthy Scouser is definitely my type.”

“Thought so, or Mickey would’ve dated you himself.”

“Shows how much you know. Michael doesn’t date teammates. Said it’s too messy, and that people get hurt.”

A peculiar expression crosses Jamie’s face, and Gary almost feels bad, having brought it up.

“He’s… not wrong,” Jamie mutters, “I might need something stronger than wine tonight.”

Gary looks at him. Really, _really_ looks at him. Why the hell would he come all the way to Manchester for a date with someone he didn’t even know?

He wouldn’t, of course. He came to Manchester for a date with his best mate. Best mate and ex, apparently.

“Shit. Sorry,” Gary says quietly, feeling kind of bad. He knows how it is—it’s hard to love brilliant boys with magic in their feet and Madrid in their eyes.

“It’s fine. We’re still friends.”

“Still, though. Might be nice to make him cut a big check tonight, don’t you think?” Gary might be ill, because he’s actively trying to cheer up Jamie Carragher, the Scousest Scouser anywhere.

“Can’t hurt, I guess. Wanna get lobster and steak? And then we can share it, half and half, so we can both have a bit of each.”

“James, I’m going to need you to think bigger,” Gary says with a wicked grin, “I have a brother who’s always hungry for leftovers, don’t you?”

“I have two, actually, but Mum’s got them covered. Stevie’s never said no to a good meal in his life, though.” Jamie’s smiling again, and unsettlingly, something falls into place inside of Gary.

“Let’s just keep it to our dinners and then one more each, okay? For the sake of carrying all the stuff when we’re shitfaced after drinking all the wine we can handle.”

“Do we have to do wine? Don’t they have, I dunno, what’s the strongest thing they have?”

“Let’s see—look upset,” Gary orders, and maybe something’s really wrong with Jamie, but this whole situation is fucking batshit, and he agrees, trying to look absolutely devastated, but authentic at the same time.

Gary raises a finger and the waitress returns.

“I’m so sorry to have to ask,” Gary starts, sounding genuinely regretful and keeping his voice hushed, “but we’ve just had some bad news. Nothing—nothing we hadn’t been expecting, but you can never really be prepared, you know? Would it be possible for us to have something a bit stronger than wine, please?”

“We have the finest aged scotch,” the waitress offers, leaning down a little and lowering her voice, “it is quite strong, though, I generally warn my customers about it beforehand, so they can keep that in mind.”

“That would be perfect, I think it would really help settle his nerves. Really, if we could just have a bottle of that, that would be amazing. Thank you again, and I’m so sorry for the inconvenience.”

“Not at all,” the waitress murmurs, looking away to give Jamie his privacy, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Jamie is kind enough to wait until she’s gone before he drops the act abruptly.

“Jesus, sure you’re not a striker, with acting skills like that?”

“I used to be, actually,” Jamie answers with a grin, “but nah, that was just the acting brilliance of a man who played sheep number 2 in his school nativity.”

Gary laughs more than he’d expected to, throwing his head back.

“Laugh it up, Neville, and she’ll realize in a second that we haven’t gotten any bad news at all,” Jamie says, but he’s got the widest shit-eating grin on his face, and Gary finds something inside him twisting. The feeling is… not unpleasant.

The gin comes, and Jamie works his way through it faster than Gary thinks is wise, if he’s honest, but he’s in no position to voice concern—he doesn’t even care about Carragher, not really. They aren’t friends, they aren’t teammates—England doesn’t count because somehow, England never does. He tries to match him, half-heartedly, and as he drinks more, Jamie—and he is _Jamie_ now, somehow, not _Carragher_ anymore—starts to look a little less awful. He’s charming, telling funny stories about his youth and Gary laughs and almost forgets that this man once screamed in his face to fuck off back to hell.

They eat and eat until they’re uncomfortable, and they’ve stuffed themselves so much that their waitress hands them the dessert menu, Gary offhandedly suggests sharing.

“I can’t—Carra, I can’t eat a whole dessert by myself. Split one with me?”

Jamie looks at him for a moment, eyes just slightly wider than usual, and nods.

“Brownie à la mode alright with you, Neville? Or d’you want the strawberry cheesecake?”

Gary’s been salivating over the picture of the strawberry cheesecake, but he gallantly lets Jamie decide. “You pick.”

Jamie looks at Gary, not at the waitress, as he orders the brownie à la mode. Gary keeps his face neutral, doesn’t betray his disappointment, but Jamie knows somehow. “Actually, never mind that. Could we just have a strawberry cheesecake instead, please? Yes, that would be brilliant, thanks. Two forks with that, please.”

“Good choice,” Gary says.

“Yeah, I saw your face when I said I wanted the brownie,” Jamie says mildly, “you could’ve just said you wanted the cheesecake, you know. Didn’t have to test me or whatever that was.”

Gary feels his hackles rise a little bit. “It wasn’t a test,” he mutters, “I was letting you choose. Being nice.”

Jamie shrugs his shoulders. “I could’ve done with either. Didn’t care much either way.”

The moment stalls, and so Gary reaches for the bottle of wine they’d ended up ordering anyway, pouring some into his glass and sipping at it.

“Michael better follow through on paying for this,” he mutters.

“Oh he will. Mickey always follows through.” Jamie’s too confident in the statement, and his smile fades for a second. “Except when he doesn’t. But he will this time. He owes me that much, at least.”

It's silent for awhile after that.

“I was sixteen,” Gary offers quietly.

“Hm?”

“When I started dating Becks. I mean, I dunno if it counts as dating, what we did back then. Drunken handjobs, mostly, to start with. Making out in the back of the coach, dragging him to the bathroom at team parties and getting on my knees for him in the toilets.”

“We were older,” Jamie confesses, voice quiet. “I was twenty-one, he was twenty. We’d tried, with girls, you know? Just because that’s what you’re supposed to do. I always hated his girlfriends, and didn’t really get why until he kissed me under the mistletoe one year, drunk at the team Christmas party. And then—it just—I understood, all of a sudden. I guess I always thought he was good-looking, but I didn’t know until then. We sort of fell in love. Spent lots of time at home watching telly and kissing and falling asleep on the sofa. Made love a few times a week, when we could manage it with matches and training—after a trophy, Gary… there’s nothing like making love after you win a trophy, like you’re on fire in the best possible way—“

He doesn’t say Michael’s name, Gary notices, but there’s a softness to the way he talks about him.

“We were idiots, though,” Jamie muses, “used to talk about getting married, adopting kids, getting a cat or something. So fucking naïve.”

“It’s not stupid. You were young and in love,” Gary points out gently.

Jamie just shrugs. “If you don’t start eating this, I’m taking the whole thing,” he says, and Gary gets the hint.

“I hate Real Madrid,” Gary says quietly, and Jamie’s lips quirk upwards, and they let the subject drop.

They shift to talking about pets instead, somehow, and Jamie asks about Phil, but the conversation’s stalled a bit and it’s growing awkward. So Jamie drinks another scotch, and Gary drinks a few more glasses of wine, and by the time they get to the car, Gary’s vision’s a bit blurred and Jamie is absolutely shitfaced.

“Come home with me,” Gary mutters, “you can’t get yourself home, you’ll end up dead in a ditch.”

“Call a taxi,” Jamie says, as they pay the bill and head outside. Gary does and they settle down to wait on a bench outside the restaurant. He’s sitting close to Gary, too close, but Gary can’t complain, really. He’s happy, somehow. He’s missed this sort of physical intimacy.

"Gaz, I just realized something-" Gary feels warm from the nickname. In all the years they've known each other, Jamie's somehow never called him that, not even on England duty.

"What did you recognize?"

"This is a bad date."

"Yeah? You think so?"

"Yeah, we're doing it all wrong! 'Sall backwards! I've already seen you naked and we haven't even kissed yet!"

"Well, I don't normally date teammates, seeing each other naked is just part of the job."

"It's a good part."

Gary feels warm again, feels heat rising in his cheeks.

"Yeah? You think so?" He says again weakly.

"Sure I do. You got to see me in all my glory, didn't you? Not just anybody gets to see this." Jamie gestures to himself with his hands.

"You're a twat, Carra."

"I got to see you too," Jamie continues obliviously, "and that wasn't too bad, I've gotta say. You're a Manc, but you're kinda pretty."

"How drunk are you?"

"Only moderately."

"Because you sound absolutely shitfaced."

"I _can_ be nice, Gaz, I'll have you know."

"I don't doubt it, your captain's half in love with you!"

Huh. Gary Neville laughed at his own jokes. Jamie hadn't known that before, despite having known him for years and years. Jamie made a mental note so he wouldn't forget. It was... sweet.

"You're not denying it," Gary notes, after the chuckles fade away.

"Stevie is way more than halfway in love with me," Jamie says casually, "we got married years ago, big ceremony at Anfield. Your invite must have got lost in the mail or something."

"Fuck off, Carra, it's not nice to say that to a date. At least tell a man you're married up front, instead of waiting for him to buy you dinner."

"You didn't buy me dinner though, did you, Gaz. It was that damn Mickey Mouse trying to buy forgiveness, poor lad. I've known him since he was twelve, the man could do anything, and I wouldn't hold it against him."

“Do you still love him?” Gary asks abruptly.

Jamie goes quiet, but he looks at Gary for a moment, and he leans over, pressing his lips to Gary’s. “Don’t talk about him anymore. Not tonight,” Jamie whispers.

Gary nods, because Jamie’s stubble is brushing against his cheek and the friction is delicious and he wonders how it would feel elsewhere. “Wait until we get home,” Gary says softly, waiting for Jamie to nod before he kisses him again. “Another minute—just another minute, J, then we have to—the taxi’s gonna come.”

“Just another minute,” Jamie agrees, sitting up and pulling Gary close.

 _He’s a good kisser,_ Gary wonders, mind dazed. It’s been so long since he’s been kissed, he thinks, and even longer since he’s been kissed _well_. “Can’t wait to get you home,” he mumbles into Jamie’s neck, pressing his lips there and savoring the soft involuntary sound Jamie lets out.

“Been a long time,” Jamie confesses, in a fit of alcohol-induced honesty, “might not last as long. But give me another chance in the morning, and I’ll make it up to you.”

Gary has to laugh, because he’s already half-hard. “Don’t worry, love, I’m in the same boat. Been a long time for me too. And I don’t think I’ll be disappointed tonight.” He’s _flirting_ , he realizes distantly. He’s flirting with _Jamie Carragher_ , of all people.

But it all seems so stupid, in the moment, hating someone because of where they’re from or what shirt they wear for work. Hell, maybe it would actually add something—some little bit of edge that had never been there with—

“Don’t think about him,” Jamie whispers, “think about me. Just me and you tonight. Don’t let them come to bed with us.”

Gary nods and lets his mind shut off, lets his body do whatever feels good until Jamie pulls away, wiping at his mouth self-consciously. Gary’s almost offended, but Jamie covers his hand with his own. “Taxi’s coming,” he murmurs lowly, “be cool, Gaz. I’ll make it up to you when we get to yours.”

Gary flushes and is grateful then, for Jamie’s good hearing, because he hadn’t even heard the car coming up to the restaurant. He nods. “You’d better,” he says playfully, “I’ve got pretty high hopes for this.”

Jamie chuckles. “Lower your expectations, baby,” he says lightly, and the endearment makes Gary’s stomach sprout horrible cliché butterflies.

They stop with the affection before the taxi pulls up in front of them, and get in, sitting carefully far apart and not talking much, though they look at each other, and each glance is loaded with everything they aren’t saying. Jamie smirks when he catches Gary looking, and Gary rolls his eyes.

They get out of the car and tip the driver enough to buy discretion. Jamie waits with his hands in his pockets, and Gary wonders whether it’s to keep his hands off him. He hopes it is.

They get inside and Jamie promptly pins Gary against the front door and kisses him hard, and Gary lets out a shameless moan.

“Look at you,” Jamie croons softly, “look at you, hard and so desperate for me.”

Gary can’t deny it, but he isn’t hurt, either. It doesn’t feel like weakness, to need Jamie like he needs him right now. Besides—

He grabs Jamie by the hips and pulls him close, grinding against him. “You’re not much better, James, are you?”

“Not at all,” Jamie admits instantly, “take me to bed, Gary.”

So Gary does.

There’s drunken giggling as they fumble with their clothes, and they fall into bed. Jamie’s kissing him wherever he can possibly reach, and Gary feels worshipped, almost, and he half wants to send Michael a thank you note, because this is exactly what he needs.

“What—what do you like in bed?” Gary asks.

“Men,” Jamie answers, laughing lowly as he kisses Gary’s stomach.

“No, I meant—“

“I know what you meant. I’m good with either. Just want to make you feel good, that’s what I get off on. Tell me what _you_ want.”

“You,” Gary says instantly, spreading his legs, “want you, J. Please. Go—go easy, though, it’s been awhile for me, I told you—“

Jamie nods and digs through Gary’s nightstand and finds the lube, opening him up gently, checking in to make sure Gary’s okay throughout the whole thing.

He finally puts on the condom and presses into him, and Gary lets out a sigh, pulling Jamie closer and kissing him. It feels good, even if it’s tight, because Jamie waits until he gives him the go ahead, and then he goes slow, strokes at Gary until he’s mewling quietly, the sound soft but genuine.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Jamie says, flushing as he realizes what he’s said.

But Gary’s too far gone to be embarrassed now—he was too far gone as soon as he let Jamie kiss him.

“So are you,” he mumbles back, fingernails digging into Jamie’s back.

As predicted for two men who have eaten as much as they have, and drank as much booze as they have, it doesn’t last very long, and when Gary comes, he does so with a wordless cry, and Jamie finishes shortly after.

They collapse onto the bed, laying there side by side, sweaty and panting.

Jamie speaks up first. “Are you gonna call me a taxi now or—“

“Stay the night,” Gary says quietly, turning and curling into him. Jamie wraps an arm around him and holds him close.

“Good night, Gary,” Jamie whispers, kissing his hair. Gary hums drowsily and they both fall asleep within minutes.  
\---

  
Gary wakes up with a pounding headache and a Scouser in his bed. Their legs are tangled and the sunlight’s starting to filter through the curtains. Jamie’s laying on his stomach next to him, and he can see the scratches he’d left on his back and he grins at the thought that Jamie will look at them and remember him.

He doesn’t want the awkward morning after thing, so he decides to sneak out of bed and take a shower so he isn’t a mess.

Jamie lets out a humph as Gary shifts and inches out of bed. He’s just walking into the bathroom when—

“Do you want me to make breakfast?” Jamie asks, voice heavy with sleep and one eye open as he looks at Gary.

Gary jumps, startled.

“Sorry,” Jamie says quietly, “just wanted to know if I should start breakfast.”

“Are you a good cook? Because the sex was good, James, but it wasn’t worth burning down my house over.”

Jamie laughs, rolling over and yawning. Gary doesn’t quite know why, but he goes back to bed and sits next to him.

“I’m pretty fair,” Jamie says modestly, “I can do a frittata and an omelet, or French toast and waffles—I’m shit at pancakes, though.”

Gary smiles. “Too bad,” he teases, “I only eat pancakes, y’know.”

Jamie makes a face. “Can’t help you then, even if you are pretty.”

The awkwardness Gary had been afraid of? He isn’t afraid of it anymore.

He’s even bold enough to lean over and press a quick kiss to Jamie’s mouth. “Okay, okay, I’ll settle for an omelet. Come have a shower first, though.”

“Thought you were gonna go first?”

“Nope. We’re both gonna go, and you’re gonna kiss me and you might even get lucky.”

Jamie grins and when Gary gets up, he follows behind.

The shower is longer than strictly needed to get clean, and Gary walks out in a towel, enjoying the post-orgasmic relaxation in his muscles. He’s considering getting dressed, but Jamie’s looking at him, at his body, admiring it.

It’s not the first time someone’s looked at him like this, certainly, but this is the first time in awhile that he’s enjoyed it—he likes feeling attractive.

So he decides to go downstairs in a towel even though Jamie pulls on his boxers, and he settles on a barstool and watches Jamie cook, telling him where things are and watching in amazement as he cuts herbs and sautés mushrooms and cracks eggs and whips them briskly for a minute or two before pouring them into the frying pan.

Jamie lets his eyes linger on Gary’s chest, on his stomach, and he has to force himself to focus on the omelet. Finally he slides it onto a plate.

“Can you put in a few pieces of bread to toast? Two for me, please,” he says, and Gary gets up and does, flushing as Jamie’s eyes drift lower, to his behind.

He does it and then comes up behind Jamie, resting his head on Jamie’s shoulder. “You’re good at cooking,” he says quietly, kissing along one of the scratches he’d left the previous night.

“Mum taught me when I was younger, just before I moved out. Said if I knew how to make eggs, I’d always have something.”

“And you can use that to impress men you’re sleeping with, too,” Gary teases.

Jamie laughs. “That’s true.”

They get the plates and sit at the counter, eating quietly and avoiding talking about what the plan is—if this is a one off or if it could happen again.

Jamie finishes up and puts his plate into the dishwasher. “I—I had fun, Gary. It was better than turning around and going home, at least.”

Gary agrees.

“But I think this was just something you needed, Gaz. A release. I don’t think you want me, really. I think the man you want is still wearing white.”

Gary flushes, and he can’t say it’s not true, not when he still dreams of David sometimes.

“And the man I want is—“ Jamie hesitates, “—complicated.”

“He’s sorry,” Gary offers quietly, “he does his best for us, and he’s a United player now, but I do get the feeling that he regrets it—that he regrets leaving.”

“He does,” Jamie agrees, “but he can’t take it back. You don’t know how it was, then. Arguing all day, screaming, crying, begging, the cold shoulder—he asked me to go with him, and that was ridiculous because there’s no way Madrid would even _want_ me, and I didn’t want to go in the first place—I just don’t think there’s a way back.”

“Not if you don’t try.” Gary tries to be gentle, but he half wants to shake Jamie by the shoulders and make him just see how easy the problem is to solve if he just wanted to.

Jamie shrugs weakly. They go upstairs and get dressed, and then Jamie gets a taxi to the restaurant so he can pick up his car and drive home.

Gary’s going to see him again soon, he knows. He can’t help it, not when international training is coming up in the next few days—he’s traveling up tomorrow.  
\---

 

The first day of international training is always a mess. The lads tend to stick with their mates, really, the United clique, the Chelsea boys, the Scousers—whether they were at Liverpool or not, the Scousers stuck together.

This time, they’re changing and the Scouse lads are teasing Jamie for the scratches in his back, slow to heal. Mickey seems particularly ruthless, pushing just slightly further than Stevie and Wayne.

“Got lucky, then, Jaybird?” Mickey’s got a look in his eye, and Gary glances at him and his stomach sinks.

He knows. And Gary knows he knows. And Jamie knows he knows. But he wouldn’t say anything, would he?

Gary hopes not.

Jamie shrugs it off and says he had a date that went well, and leaves it at that.

“Are you going to keep seeing them?” Mickey asks, edge in his voice.

Jamie ignores him, heading out of the dressing room and jogging around the pitch.

“Leave it, Michael,” Gary says quietly.

“Was he good?” Mickey asks bluntly.

Gary flushes and glances down at a mark Jamie had left on his hip.

“That’s brilliant, then. You guys are together now. Fantastic.”

Gary pauses—would it be a betrayal to just tell Mickey himself that Jamie was still interested in him? He’d enjoyed it, the trust Jamie had shown him, in a way entirely separate from the way he’d enjoyed Jamie’s body in bed.

“You two probably need to talk about this,” he says eventually, “I’m not getting involved. But he deserves someone who can make him happy, Michael. He’s a good man.”

Mickey rolls his eyes so hard it’s a wonder they don’t fall right out of his head.

“I’ve known him since I was _twelve_ , I know _exactly_ what kind of man he is,” he says icily, turning to walk away.

“You’re the one who set us up,” Gary says quietly, “that was _you_ , Michael. _You_ did that. You don’t have the right to be this upset about it.”

Mickey’s jaw tightens and then he’s gone and Gary’s standing by himself. He goes out and smiles at Jamie, who smiles back and lets his eyes linger on Gary’s body until he flushes under his gaze.

Mickey’s a bit _off_ during training. Stevie and Wayne talk about it, voices hushed as they glance at him. But Jamie doesn’t bother saying anything. He tries his best to just stay normal, though he does flirt with Gary when they find themselves caught in a challenge, both falling down with their legs tangled.

“Come see me tonight?” He asks softly, helping Gary up.

Gary flushes. “Course I will. Mick’s gonna be jealous, though.”

Jamie smirks. “So what? Let him be.”

They part and jog back to their positions and Gary thinks about it, wonders how he’ll possibly explain himself to Scholesy when they’re sharing a room.

Training ends eventually and Jamie gets more stick for the scratches and Gary gets some for the mark on his hip, though they’re just joking—most people assume that it’s just a bruise.

Jamie’s alone in his room when Gary gets there. “Stevie’s spending the night in Wayne and Mickey’s room,” he says bluntly, “asked him if he would—I told him I’d have company, but I didn’t tell him who.”

That answers that, and Gary finds he almost doesn’t care, and then Jamie’s hands are on him and his lips are on him and his clothes are on the floor and his back is against the soft, cool duvet. For someone who’s used to long dry spells, getting to have excellent sex twice in one week is mind-boggling. They lay there after, and this time Gary gives up any pretense and nuzzles into Jamie’s chest.

“You’re gonna spoil me, James,” he says playfully. Jamie’s eyes are closed, but he smiles at the words, and Gary can’t quite help but lean up and press a kiss to his lips.

“You can spend the night,” Jamie offers, “but you’d have to be out of here pretty early—Stevie’s gonna need to come back and get ready.”

Gary shrugs and settles himself back down comfortably. “I’ll go,” he decides, “give me a few minutes, and then I’ll go.”

Jamie smiles and pulls him closer, holding him as they lay in bed together. “Is he going to be a problem in the dressing room, do you think?”

Gary weighs the question. “For England, yeah, probably. And you don’t help, J, you’re always flirting and staring at me like you want me.”

“I do want you.”

Gary flushes but continues. “You stare, and it’s—I haven't felt that sexy in a long, long time, but he hates that. Might be an issue when we go back to Manchester. Not easy to make it at a club when you hate the captain.”

Jamie rolls his eyes. “You could always come to Liverpool,” he offers, chuckling as Gary flicks his side lightly.

Jamie’s nearly asleep when Gary finally gets up, but the movement wakes him.

“You can take a shower if you want,” he mumbles, “I can come with you, if you want.”

Gary smiles and kisses Jamie’s forehead. “Stay here, sleepy boy. I’ll shower and then go. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Night, Gaz.” Jamie’s asleep not too long after, and Gary showers quickly and heads back out. He ponders how he feels—and it’s more irritation than anything. He’s annoyed that he had to leave Jamie’s room. He doesn’t feel used, or dirty, or anything else that he might feel leaving a one night stand, but he would rather have stayed and had Jamie make him an omelet in the morning again. Still, he knows that’s impossible, so he slips back into his room, sees Scholesy asleep, and climbs into his own bed as quietly as he can.

The rest of the week continues like that. Gary and Jamie agree that Stevie’s more agreeable than Scholesy to being asked to leave, but Jamie feels too bad having him go every single night, so they sleep together every other day. Sometimes, on off days, Jamie stays late after training, and Gary stays with him, and then they go to the empty locker room and kiss and flirt like teenagers, hands shoved haphazardly down shorts and groans stifled into necks and shoulders.

But Jamie still wants Mickey. Gary can see it, in the way his face has a pained expression when he’s looking at Mickey and thinks nobody can see him. It’s exasperating, really.

But he can’t complain, not when Jamie and Mickey not being together means that he gets Jamie now and then, the comfort of a warm body and tender touches. He’d thought it would be aggressive, with him, thought it would be hate-fucking, but it isn’t like that at all. It’s not quite making love, but it’s—well, it feels like friends with benefits, which he supposes means he’s now friends with Jamie Carragher, but that thought isn’t as appalling as it once would have been. They just give each other what they need and it’s such a nice change from long, lonely nights and watching stupidly unrealistic porn while wanking.

Gary takes to talking to him after sex, though. When they’re naked and sated and relaxed, laying in bed next to each other, he turns onto his side and looks at Jamie, not flinching from the eye contact. He runs his fingers down the stubbly cheek.

“You should talk to him,” he says one day. “He loves you, J. You should talk to him. I know we have fun together, but you’re in love with him.”

Jamie doesn’t shut down, he doesn’t get angry or ask Gary to leave. He just stays quiet, looking into Gary’s eyes, until he makes himself look away.

“He hurt me,” he says softly, “I don’t know if I could—what if he leaves again, Gaz? I was young the first time. When I spiraled, Stevie looked after me, made sure I didn’t do anything rash, took away my phone when I wanted to call him—I can’t do that again, I can’t handle that again. It’s too much.”

Gary softens instantly, and lays his head on Jamie’s shoulder, pressing a kiss to the skin. “You’re older now, James. Stronger. And he deserves a second chance, doesn’t he? _You_ deserve a second chance to be happy.”

“Why are you trying to get rid of me anyway?” Jamie asks lightly.

Gary laughs. “You’re the best sex I’ve had in years. I’m not trying to get rid of you. Hell, if you do get back together with him, I might ask if I can borrow you now and again. But you deserve to be happy, love, that’s all. And you can set me up with someone pretty. The last one was shit.”

Jamie chuckles and runs his fingers through Gary’s hair. “I’ll find you the best-looking Evertonian I can,” he says lightly, “I don’t know too many Mancs, but Evertonian’s the next best thing, isn’t it?”

Gary smiles at the words. “After you talk to Mickey,” he says softly, “find me a hot date after you talk to Mickey, J.”

He can feel Jamie nod, and that night, Gary stays over and they wake up to a tentative knock on the door, Stevie asking if it’s okay for him to come in.

“Go have a shower, I’ll distract him for a bit” Jamie says softly, and Gary heads off to hide in the bathroom, gathering up his clothes and turning on the water before he hears Jamie pulling on a pair of boxers and answering.

“I’m sorry, mate, give us just five minutes? We don’t need more than five minutes and then you can come in and get ready, promise.”

Gary can hear Stevie’s voice, exasperated but fond, before the door closes. A moment later, Jamie opens the door and peers in. “Five minutes, Gaz, and gimme a goodbye kiss and then you can go.”

Gary agrees and slips back into the room with Scholesy just before Stevie comes back, warding off the questioning he gets with a shrug before stripping into fresh clothes.

Jamie takes it easier on Mickey that day, and doesn’t stare at Gary half as much, and at the end of training, he asks Mickey if he wants to get a coffee. Gary knows things will be different after this, though he doesn’t quite know how.

Mickey looks ecstatic, though he bites his lip and tries to hide it. He nods, and after they get dressed, Jamie leads Mickey out of the dressing room with a hand on his back. Gary smiles, watching them go.

Mickey had thought they would go to a coffee shop, but instead, Jamie brings him to his room, setting on the coffeemaker and sitting on the bed.

“I’m sorry I’ve been a dick,” he says quietly, “What I have with Gary doesn’t mean I should treat you like that.”

Mickey shrugs. “I don’t get to be jealous anymore. Lost the right to that a long time ago.”

“What if you could earn it back?” Jamie asks, voice soft.

Michael looks at him. “Can I?”

Jamie nods, and stops fiddling with the coffeemaker, heading straight to the bed and sitting down. “Gary and I had fun,” he confesses, “but it wasn’t like that—we slept together, and we’re friends, but that’s it.”

“I still love you, you know. When you called and talked to me about that date, it broke my heart, a bit. But I didn’t care, because you were talking to me, and that’s all that mattered, really. Ended up late to training because I wouldn’t hang up on you, got a fine.”

He looks up at Jamie, and they’re sitting close, and when Jamie wraps his arms around him, Mickey hugs him back.

“Don’t leave again,” Jamie whispers into Mickey’s neck. “Please. I don’t think I could take it if you left again.”

Mickey shakes his head, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I never wanted that. I’m so sorry.”

Jamie pulls away from the hug and looks him in the eyes for a moment, and he leans in, pressing his lips to Mickey’s. It’s chaste, a silent sign that he’s forgiven, and Mickey takes it, determined not to screw up again.

He leans in and rests his head on Jamie’s shoulder, taking in the scent of his cologne again and letting himself melt into him. “Love you,” he mumbles.

“Love you too, Mickey Mouse,” Jamie says softly, “even after all these years of you being an idiot. Still love you.”

When Stevie goes upstairs to bed, he finds Mickey and Jamie curled up together in bed, holding hands and talking in low voices. He can tell instantly—the tenderness in Jamie’s eyes as he looks at Michael, and the way Mickey’s cautious with what he says.

“Ahem.” They don’t spring apart, but they do both turn to look at him. “Switch rooms with me,” Stevie demands, “switch rooms with me, Mick. I’m tired of doubling up with Waz, the man snores like a _chainsaw_ —“

Mickey laughs. “Yeah, sure, I’ll bring my stuff over here,” he agrees, though he doesn’t look like he intends to move anytime soon.

“Good, I’ll clear out of the honeymoon suite then!” Stevie teases.

Mickey flushes, and Jamie grins, picking up a stray sock and tossing it at Stevie. “Quit bothering my boyfriend, Steven."   
\---

 

Gary sees them the next day, and he knows instantly that they’re back together and not breaking up anytime soon. The way Mickey looks at Jamie, as if he’s hung the moon in the sky, as if he’s his entire world, it says it all. Jamie’s no better, and he keeps a hand on Mickey all the time, a casual arm around his shoulders or a hand on his back, or on his thigh.

Jamie manages to drag himself away for a few minutes at the end of training, waiting until nobody’s left and pulling Gary into a tight hug. “Thanks, mate,” he says quietly, pressing his lips to Gary’s cheek. he pulls away and hands Gary a piece of paper with a name and a phone number on it.

“He’s pretty,” he says, “pretty and smart as anything, Gaz, he’ll keep you on your toes. Call him, okay? I’ll pay for the date, even. You can eat until you burst.”

Gary smiles, and watches as Jamie walks off, taking Mickey’s hand as they head towards the elevator. He rolls his eyes, glad that his room isn’t next door to theirs, and dials the number.

“Hi, Jake? My name is Gary, I got your number from Jamie Carragher, would you be interested in going out sometime?”

 

After all, his last blind date had gone pretty well.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Paul Weller's song You Do Something To Me


End file.
